About 15 years ago, I went to the drive-thru at [Fast Food Place] and ordered a grilled chicken sandwich with no tomato. When I got the bag, I looked in and saw a sandwich wrapper with a tag attached that said, “Special order, no tomato.” I drove a few miles away, parked the car, and settled down to eat my lunch.

Unwrapping the sandwich, I found that even with the “no tomato” tag, it still had a slice. I picked it off and left it on the wrapper, then proceeded to eat my sandwich.

An hour or so later, I was heading back in the direction of the same place, so I pulled in. There happened to be no line, and the pickup window was open, so I pulled up to it, plopped my wrapper with the “no tomato” tag outside and the tomato slice inside on the counter inside the window, and took off.

(I work in a restaurant as a busboy, and then as a waiter. The restaurant that I work in will give you free chocolate cake if it is your birthday. The cake isn’t very big, but large enough for four people. A woman comes in with six kids, all around the age of five or six years old.)

Customer: “It’s my son’s birthday, and we would like the free cake, and waters for everyone.”

Me: “Sure.”

(Normally, customers order food and get the cake as dessert. I run and grab a cake and bring it out with plates and the water for everyone. The cake also comes with a single candle that we light, and we leave the cake knife on the table so the customer can cut the cake themselves. I light the candle and start to walk away.)

Customer: “Wait! You have to sing Happy Birthday to my son.”

Me: “Okay.”

(This is nothing I’ve ever been asked to do, and I can’t sing well at all, but I sing “Happy Birthday.”)

Customer: “Can’t you cut the cake for us?”

Me: “Sure.”

(I cut the cake and distributed it to each child. Somehow, with only cake and water, they managed to make a huge mess, and then left in a hurry. They ended up leaving me a single dollar for all of the trouble and the free cake.)

(I am an assistant manager at a popular footwear store where customers pretty much find their own shoes unless they need help. My teammate this afternoon is a high-school-aged girl that has been employed longer than I have. A middle-aged gentleman has been in the sandal department for almost 30 minutes, trying on pair after pair of sandals. After checking in on him a couple of times, I decide to work on putting up a new display. Just when I start, the man gets my attention. He sounds both surprised and confused.)

Customer: “Well, I like these…”

Me: “Oh, you found a pair you liked?”

Customer: “Well, I mean I like these… but which one is men’s?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Customer: “I didn’t realize that this aisle had men’s and women’s sandals in it.”

(I’m a little taken aback by his confusion, since most of the women’s sandals have rhinestones, excessive straps, and could be considered quite “feminine,” whilst the vast majority of the men’s sandals are made to look like the tires of a monster truck for soles, with cargo straps for uppers.)

Me: “Oh, sorry about the confusion. The sandals on the display behind you are the men’s sandals.”

Customer: “Well… I like these.” *he points to his foot, which has a traditional-looking brown sandal on it* “I just noticed that it says, ‘Women’s,’ on the box, but they’re the most comfortable I’ve tried on.”

Me: “Oh, okay.”

Customer: “Can I still get them?”

Me: “Sure.”

Customer: “The only thing I noticed that might make them look like women’s shoes are the heel.”

(The heel in question is less than a quarter-inch high, and is barely visible when he is standing, but my coworker comes by.)

Coworker: “Because those are women’s shoes.”

Customer: “But… you can’t tell unless you see the heel, see?” *points at the heel* “Otherwise, they look like regular sandals. Can I still get them?”

Me: “Yes.”

Coworker:*simultaneously* “No.”

Customer:*to me* “They’re really comfortable.”

Coworker: “They’re women’s shoes.”

Customer:*to me again* “You can barely see the heel.”

Coworker: “They’re women’s shoes!”

Me: “If they’re comfortable, and you are okay with the fact that they weren’t designed with men in mind, I say get ’em.”

Coworker:*pleadingly* “But they’re women’s shoes.”

(I give my coworker the “shh” sign and she looks at the man’s feet.)

Customer: “They’re really comfortable; none of the men’s sandals were comfortable at all. I think I’ll get them.”

Coworker:*almost sounding scared* “But they’re women’s shoes!”

(I look at my coworker angrily, and mouth to her to stop talking.)

Customer: “I’ll take them. I’ll wear them out.”

(I walked the man to the register as my coworker feebly muttered one last time about the sandals being women’s shoes. The man left happy, and my coworker didn’t talk to me for the rest of her shift. I found out the next day that my coworker was a member of a Christian denomination that has very clear views that men and women should never cross dress, which might have explained her reaction.)

I’d been feeling weak and exhausted for quite a while. Medical tests indicated cancer. Blood tests, x-rays, and almost any medical test you can imagine were ordered and a biopsy scheduled.

We scheduled an appointment with my regular doctor for the pre-op exam.

As a nurse was leading me to an exam room, through an open door we saw a doctor (who was not on my case) staring at my chest x-ray . Then we noticed that the doctor was – to use an old-fashioned phrase – pleasuring himself.

Neither of us could look at anyone nearby. Nor could we speak to each other.

Let’s go over the facts again – that doctor was masturbating

with his office door wide open

in an extremely busy medical facility

and his “inspiration” was an x-ray showing my breasts. Or at least a fuzzy white depiction barely recognizable as breasts.